WORST TIMES HAVE ARRIVED: A POEM

WORST TIMES HAVE ARRIVED: A POEM

The scales of justice, rusted, swing no more,

But weigh the cost of souls against the gain.

The battlefield, a market, drenched in gore,

Where profit blooms in fields of human pain.

Religion, once a comfort, balm, and guide,

Is hawked 'n packaged, twisted, bought, 'n sold.

Even the spirit, seeking peace inside,

Finds commerce there, its story to be told.

The yogi’s breath, the whispered sacred name,

Each priced and plated, served for empty show.

And power sits upon a throne of shame,

Where rulers barter all they claim to know.

They feast on flesh and leave the bones to rot,

Our trader kings, with conscience they've not.